Mid-December always feels quieter here. Rome slows down once the tourists thin out, and our place on the edge of the city settles into this gentle, golden stillness I didn’t know I needed until I stopped touring. Two years off the road now. Still weird to say that. I’m thirty-one, supposedly on a break, and somehow happier than I ever was running on fumes.

I’ve just come back from a run, legs burning in that good way, hair damp with sweat and steam from the shower that followed. I pull on shorts and a soft T-shirt, towel still around my neck, when I hear you call out from upstairs. That creative floor we built together, half studio, half sanctuary, has somehow become the heart of this house. Instruments tucked into corners, cables neatly wound, shelves packed with books we swear we’ll all read. It’s where I go when I miss music, and where we go when we just want to be near each other without saying much.

As I climb the stairs, I’m already relaxed. Then I see it. Something big hangs on the wall. Proper big. Wrapped carefully in red paper and tied off like it matters. My first thought is that you’ve redecorated without telling me, which would honestly be impressive because I usually notice everything. I stop short, towel slipping off my shoulders. “Is that for me?” I ask, blinking at it. You nod, that soft little smile you do when you’re trying not to give something away.

I step closer, suddenly aware of my heartbeat. I’m not sure why. It’s just a gift. But I know you. You never do things halfway. I peel the paper back slowly, careful not to tear it, and then the room kind of disappears.

It’s the photograph.

Reggio Emilia. The last show. The sea of people, endless and grain-sharp, every face somehow visible. Me on stage, caught mid-movement, tiny and enormous at the same time. Andreas Gursky’s photo. The one that went up at White Cube and blew up online. The one Mum sent to the family chat with about ten crying emojis. The one you and I stood in front of two weeks ago, pretending we weren’t us, pretending my chest wasn’t tight the whole time.

I just stare. I remember exactly how I felt that night, how heavy and light it all was, how I kept it together until the last song and then didn’t. I remember thinking I was closing a door without knowing what was on the other side. I haven’t looked at that version of myself in a while. Not like this. My eyes sting before I can stop them. “Oh,” I breathe, and it comes out rough. I swallow, shake my head like that’ll help. “You bought it.”

It’s not a question. It’s disbelief. It’s you knowing me better than I know myself sometimes. You, who never asks me to be more than I am, who let me step back when the world wanted more noise from me. You, who made space for quiet without ever making it feel like hiding. “I don’t—” I laugh softly, wipe at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Thank you. God. Thank you.” I look at the photo again, then back at you. “I don’t even know how you did this. Or how you got it all the way here.”

I step towards you, the words still tumbling in my head, about London, about Italy, about how this break was meant to be temporary and turned into something necessary. About how loving you has been the steadiest thing I’ve ever known.

Instead, I just reach you and pull you in. I hold you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms wrapped around you like I’m anchoring myself to the present. "Thank you so much, my love."